


and to think you would get me to the altar

by regnant



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Conception, Estermont, F/M, Greenstone, Impregnation Kink, In Which Joffrey Is Conceived, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, Royalty kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 03:05:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17820626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regnant/pseuds/regnant
Summary: Jaime has known them, has kept them, has loathed them, and borne them love, too, perhaps, but best of all, he has unmade them, has made the way for her. Yes, Jaime should be the one to give her this.One fateful night on Estermont, Jaime teaches Cersei what it means to be king.





	and to think you would get me to the altar

They stand huddled together in the center of the room as they often have, sharing the heat of their bodies, quietly combatant against the damp that lingers in these walls. “Do you want him dead?”

Jaime’s eyes have said the words long before they come to his lips, but the sentiment startles Cersei either way. In their long separation not so long ago, the queen supposes that her brother has grown even better accustomed to the dark than her, slinking through shadows and learning the shapes of castles and their secrets, if only to keep them as he’s sworn to do. He is sinuous, even as he is hulking, oh, and bold as the day they were born. It follows that he would insist on attending Robert on this quest to ascertain the truth about this cousin of his, that he would so easily come to the answer. The walls of Greenshit might be carved of stone, but the doors he guards are thin enough.

Jaime might have heard them, or anyone. Cersei may willfully ignore the king’s indiscretions as she is able, but she is not blind. She can see them now, in fact, even as she closes her emerald green eyes to the grassy moss and mildew that creep up the castle walls. She has witnessed the way that the woman catches his eye—begs for it, truly, brandishing those heavy melons that she calls breasts—whilst he is out in the courtyard hawking. He insists on calling it that, hawking, even if the object of his muddy ocean eyes is more of an overfed pigeon, and he, in turn, horribly distractible and inefficient at the sport. Cersei sees herself as more of a vulture, save for how vultures only come for things that have already suffered and been killed.

At this stage of the game, she’d much sooner indulge in a game of chase.

“No.” The thought soothes her, but not well enough. Her eyes snap open to a much more pleasurable image, the one that she’s expected, the one that only she can see, the absolute god that truly rules this vile world, made flesh only once (and a second time, too, but she curses her eyes, fixed and stagnant as ever, because still she cannot see both of them in synchronicity.) Nothing could ever be so awful as they are wonderful, and rage can always be given new and better forms. “I want him horned.”

A moment passes before the atmosphere ignites.

Invigorated, Jaime descends upon her. He works at the ties keeping her skin imprisoned in the silken nightclothes and tears the cloth away once she is unbound. His face is feral, his hands hurried, but even Jaime seems far more stable than Cersei herself in this state—she is fluctuant, moving through intense waves of fury and ecstasy and grief. They all seem to rise up inside her in equal measure until they harmonize and form something new, powerful, complicated, enigmatic as the queen herself; oh, and then there is the _want_.

She thinks nothing of it as her brother tumbles atop her, their bodies leaving impressions in the thick crimson bedclothes beneath them. Even if Cersei had the desire to protest, her ability would come into question next. She can barely keep her breath. It’s almost too much to take, the ways that he touches her, and worse, the ways that she wishes he would. Cersei stretches, catlike, pushing the arch of her foot further into Jaime’s hand, flexes her neck to study his fingers and their precise motions as he rids himself of his golden epaulets and embossed breastplate. He is wearing far too much for her to be so exposed. She summons her patience, reaches her hands upward, helps her brother move toward a true state of undress. Slowly. Sensually. _Yes. I must relax._

This is how a husband fucks his wife, after all, and she has never felt so willing to play the part.

“Touch me,” Cersei says, entreating and commanding all at once. _Love me,_ she thinks to herself, oh, but she doesn’t say it, would never say it. She never has to ask.

Her hands are on Jaime properly before he reciprocates, and that feels fitting, because she has always been first, since they have come into the world. He sheds the last of his underclothes, and Cersei is surrounded by her brother’s broad shoulders and his steaming skin and its countless scars and the sunlight of his hair. Their fingers knit together, seamless. Cersei’s free hand traces the heavy contours of his muscles, his bicep, shoulder, chest. She circles his nipple with her thumb. Jaime’s own fingers are much more restless, sliding up and down Cersei’s body, breasts and belly and hips and sides. They cannot settle; they cannot decide.

It would seem that their destination lies in Cersei’s own hands. “Tell me what you would have of me, my queen.”

“I want…” _No, that isn’t right._ “I want—“ Cersei loses the words for a moment as his hand dips lower, teasing the place where leg meets lip. _Why do I hesitate?_ She never doubts that he will understand, that he will agree. Jaime has known them, has kept them, has loathed them, and borne them love, too, perhaps, but best of all, he has unmade them, has made the way for her. Yes, Jaime should be the one to give her this. “I want to be _king_.” For all the wetness it brings forth between her thighs, even outside of this bed, it is not a lie. Kings, Cersei thinks, are both desirous and desired. Kings are never thus humiliated by their pretty little wives. Kings do not need to be consoled.

“Oh, Cersei, of course you are,” Jaime breathes at her ear. His tongue skates over Cersei’s neck and jaw as his index finger—finally, _finally_ —circles her clit, painfully slowly a handful of times before growing in speed and pressure. _Thank the gods._ Cersei bucks forward into Jaime’s hand, then chastises herself for it. _A king would be calmer._ “You shall be whatever you like, dear sister. King, queen—as long as I get to be _yours_.”

It’s quiet for a long while, then, as they kiss, until he intrudes upon it, breaks the silence and the illusion. “I would let you be king.” Jaime’s forehead rests against hers, clouding her lungs with his intoxicating breath. She is boneless, brainless like this, and it would scare her if it weren’t so right. He is so close that she cannot even see him: she can scarcely keep her eyes open. The world is tongue and tooth and lip and heat. All of it at once, and absolutely nothing else, is pertinent and real. She strains to focus on his cock in the half-dark of her lidded eyes as he hides its head away, begins to fuck the inside of one of those brick fists, the one she had held just a moment ago. “Always. If I were your husband—“

 _No!_ He can’t ruin this with hypotheticals, with the harsh ache of their reality. He cannot. “You _will_ ,” she gripes, answering his mistake with a punishing scratch to his bare chest. _Right where Robert will wear his horns,_ she thinks, satisfied. “And you do. Because you _are_ my husband.” _Tonight_.

A whimper, and then he clears his throat. “Not so loudly.” Jaime is uncharacteristically anxious. Often enough, it’s her with a hand over his greedy mouth at moments like these. It irks Cersei, just a little, that _this_ is the one night he begs her be quiet.

Her face must betray her; he tries again. “Calm now, sister,” Jaime insists beside her as he dips two wide fingers into her cunt, circling her clit with his thumb. They find their way right inside effortlessly, no tension, no fight. This time, Cersei doesn’t stop herself from arching forward. Jaime knows her body just as well as she does, if not better, and the way he curls those fingers at just the right spot… “You needn’t worry. I will give my royal wife what she so desperately desires.” She can scarcely hear a thing over the moans at her lips, and the thrumming of blood inside of her head is so loud that she wonders if she’s swallowed her own heart, but she is so, so grateful that she ultimately manages. “The king can do as she likes.”

Cersei’s gaze widens as it holds her brother’s, as he pushes down nice and hard at just the right spot, at just the right moment. “I—“ Her eyes flutter open and shut, once, twice, oh, it must happen a hundred times, but she can make out that shit-eating smile as she cums, leaving a haze of wetness all over her brother’s hand and the sheets. Jaime only presses their bodies together, more tightly and fully horizontal now, and kisses the shape of passion on her open mouth, messily and hastily but perfect. When he pulls his hand away to taste her sex, three fingers slip into his mouth rather than two. At that, she grows even warmer, even wetter. She is so hungry and so open, she hadn’t even realized the third had gone inside.

“My turn.”

He gives her no time to think about that now, and there is no reason to act abashed, anyway. She is only better prepared. Jaime can be hard to take at times—not that Cersei expects this to be one of those times. She makes a wanton king, vicious in the way that she wants him. She will have him raw and whole.

It is her turn to clear her throat.“Oh? You want to fuck me now?” She spreads her legs wide, feigning pliant and soft even as her brows shoot skyward in that ever-defiant posture. “Is that what you think is going to happen?”

“Do _you_ think otherwise?” She might take him for irritated if she didn’t know his face so well. His eyes are lusty as they rake over her naked body in all of its graceful disarray. He smirks down at her as he props up on one elbow, sidling subtly, incredibly closer.

She takes one of his hands in hers, turns her head to the side, whispers coyly in his ear. “I’ll let you do it. If you give me what I want.”

Cersei does not need to see Jaime’s puzzled expression to know just how he wears it. She is too busy appreciating the taste of his skin, the sounds of his groans—all she has done is kiss his neck and stroke the back of his hand with her thumb, but he has never been so much hers. _I call him my mirror, but I am stone and he is putty._ “And?” She brings her foot up over his calf, and Cersei knows that Jaime must feel her smirk against his clavicle. _Not even putty melts like this._ “Wh-what? What is it?”

“Your cum.” Blunt, no more meekness or folly. “In my cunt.” Her eyes narrow as his widen, her eyebrows lowering as his raise. They are perfect. They are reflected. She pulls herself slightly upward, one of her legs insisting entry between both of his. She kneels, reclining against the headboard still as their bodies scissor together perfectly. _A king should not conceive on her back._ “Those horns I mentioned? I do not mean to let him ever take them off.”

Jaime does not need to be told twice, for once. Before she can speak, her lip is in his teeth, and she has to retaliate, until she loses her grip of him in a groan. She pulls his open hand between their legs and grinds her clit against the pads of Jaime’s fingers, until she takes it back into hers and puts an end to that. Cersei eases her hips back and forth over his cock, then, _so much better,_ held up by his other hand spread over the length of her back keeping her in perfect balance, in this and all things. Every touch is a sigh of relief and a burn at once as she thrusts up against him, so warm, so tantalizing, too much and not enough, until he slips inside of her, clearly without even meaning to do so, but the surprise makes it feel even better.

His eyes darken and his hips stutter. “Fuck, I didn’t—“

“Don’t you dare apologize.” She bends her neck, peppering his chest with hot, wet kisses so that she can feel his fluttering heart. The scratches will leave a mark, and perhaps a scar. It would not be the first time. “Just fuck me. Hard.”

She dares to look him in those sultry green eyes, then, as they wear twinned grins on their flushed faces and nothing else at all; wraps those long fingers into his hair, _so much hair_ , kisses him deep, hisses at the heat of his touch. They will make this child together, both of them, the one being that they are. He shall be theirs, their heir, their future, and that will be the only thing that matters. _Hang the world if they will not like it. They do not need to know._ She is getting close, so close, too close to be so far away. She knows that he is, too. She can tell by the smells of sweat and arousal in the air, their hanging, fevered breathing and its infrequency.

She can taste him on her tongue, can feel him hot and pulsing inside her, and this is her undoing, just as it always is, always will be, inevitably. “Jaime, Jaime, J—“ and even as her tongue twists and struggles around this sound she has learned so early and so well, she knows that she will name their son for him then and there.


End file.
